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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27532051">Russian Literature on the Table</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto'>toyhto</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Strangers to Lovers, Tumblr Prompt, different first meeting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-08 06:48:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,196</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27532051</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon Solo wants Illya to help him with a pickle jar. Illya helps him with something else, too.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>206</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Russian Literature on the Table</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written to a prompt on <a href="https://dailyau.tumblr.com/post/634598671390031872/neighbors-who-only-meet-because-i-cannot-get-this">Daily AU</a> by <a href="https://perfectlyrose.tumblr.com">perfectlyrose</a> that said <i>'Neighbors who only meet because “i cannot get this stupid jar open, can you help?” AU'</i>.</p><p>AU in which they meet on another mission.</p><p>I tried to write them a little less dumb this time because I feel like the peak dumbness had been already achieved. But I don't know. This is still pretty dumb.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was late in the evening when someone rang the doorbell.<br/>
<br/>
Illya walked to the door. It was probably the lady on the second floor. She had two cats and sometimes she asked Illya to look after them while she was out of town. Once, she had asked Illya to stay for tea, and they had had a nice conversation about Tolstoy.<br/>
<br/>
Illya opened the lock on the door and checked that he had his gun. At least he was certain that whoever was at his door wasn’t the CIA agent who was staying in the apartment next door. <em>Napoleon Solo.</em> The most effective agent in the CIA. And probably the most self-indulgent. Illya had been shadowing the man for two weeks now and he had watched multiple times as the man had crossed the street smiling like an idiot.<br/>
<br/>
He straightened his back and opened the door.<br/>
<br/>
It was the CIA agent.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m so sorry to disturb you,” said the man, smiling like an idiot. “But I can’t get this stupid jar open. Could you help me?”<br/>
<br/>
Illya stared at the man. Maybe he had got false information. It was impossible that the man standing in front of him in a bathrobe and a pair of slippers, his hair wet, holding a glass jar out to Illya, was the CIA’s most effective agent.<br/>
<br/>
“Pickles?” Illya asked.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah,” the man said and placed the jar of pickles in Illya’s hands. “I eat them every day. Do you mind if I come in?”<br/>
<br/>
Illya opened his mouth, but the man was already in his flat and he was holding the man’s pickles. He followed the man, who certainly looked like Napoleon Solo in the pictures in the briefing. His legs were bare and Illya doubted he could have hidden a gun in the pocket of the bathrobe. It was just flapping too much. He walked around Illya’s living room, glanced at the cover of the book on Illya’s coffee table, and then walked back to Illya. “Dostoevsky? I hear he’s grim.”<br/>
<br/>
“Hmm”, Illya said.<br/>
<br/>
The man looked amused for some reason. Then he cleared his throat and stretched his hand out to Illya. “Sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. Napoleon Solo.”<br/>
<br/>
Illya was still holding the pickle jar. He felt as if he had missed something.<br/>
<br/>
“Come on,” Napoleon Solo said and grabbed Illya’s hand. Illya almost dropped the jar. “You must be lonely. You haven’t talked to anyone except the lady on the second floor in two weeks.”<br/>
<br/>
Illya frowned.<br/>
<br/>
“Illya Kuryakin,” Solo said. His grip on Illya’s hand was surprisingly tight for an American. “Nice to meet you, Illya. Now, if it’s alright, I would be very thankful if you opened my jar. I need a sandwich.”<br/>
<br/>
“I have pickles,” Illya said but pulled his hand away from Solo and opened the jar. It wasn’t even tight. Solo looked at his hands. He gave the jar back to Solo. Certainly Solo was going to leave now. It would be completely unfathomable for a CIA agent to stay in a KGB agent’s flat for tea and a sandwich. Especially since Illya’s current mission was to watch Solo, and he was quite certain that Solo’s current mission was to watch him.<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks,” Solo said and took a pickle. Then he put it in his mouth. Just like that. With no sandwich.<br/>
<br/>
Illya stared at him.<br/>
<br/>
“Would you like one?” Solo asked.<br/>
<br/>
“A pickle?”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah.”<br/>
<br/>
Illya cleared his throat. “No, thank you.”<br/>
<br/>
“Suit yourself,” Solo said. “Anyway, do you recommend him?”<br/>
<br/>
“What?”<br/>
<br/>
“Dostoevsky.” Solo patted the book on Illya’s coffee table, walked to the sofa and sat down. “If I said I wanted to read Russian literature, would you recommend that I start with him?”<br/>
<br/>
“I doubt you would be capable of appreciating Dostoevsky.”<br/>
<br/>
“I speak fluent Russian,” Solo said. Illya wasn’t impressed. That had been on Solo’s file.<br/>
<br/>
“You could start with Tolstoy.<em> Anna Karenina</em>, for example.”<br/>
<br/>
Solo crossed his legs. “Doesn’t it have, like, a thousand pages?”<br/>
<br/>
“864,” Illya said. “I thought you spoke fluent Russian.”<br/>
<br/>
“I do,” Solo said. “But sometimes I’m busy with other things. Do you have tea?”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes,” Illya said.<br/>
<br/>
“Great,” Solo said and smiled. “Could I have some?”<br/>
<br/>
Illya opened his mouth and closed it again. Clearly he was in control of the situation. He had a gun, Solo didn’t. He was wearing clothes, Solo wasn’t. And he was taller than Solo, and undoubtedly a better agent.<br/>
<br/>
“Yes,” he said. “I also have cake.”<br/>
<br/>
“Lovely,” Solo said, smiling widely.<br/>
<br/>
“Come to the kitchen,” Illya said.<br/>
<br/>
“Don’t you trust me with your Dostoevsky?” Solo asked but walked to the kitchen before him. He followed. It seemed somewhat weird even for an American to be walking around in another man’s flat in slippers. But Solo didn’t seem bothered. He sat down at Illya’s table and waited as Illya put the kettle on. Once in a while he ate a pickle. Illya cut the cake and put it on a plate. Solo smiled at him and took a slice.<br/>
<br/>
“Doesn’t work with pickles,” Solo said.<br/>
<br/>
“Take more,” Illya said.<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks.” Solo reached to take another slice and then stopped. He glanced at Illya. “You wouldn’t try to poison me, would you?”<br/>
<br/>
“No,” Illya said. He didn’t like poison. It was too impersonal. “Poison is for the incompetent.”<br/>
<br/>
“I knew it,” Solo said and bit of the cake. “Your file is very impressive.”<br/>
<br/>
Illya poured himself a cup of tea and sat down.<br/>
<br/>
“My file is impressive too, of course. I suppose you’ve seen it.”<br/>
<br/>
Illya took a slice of cake. It was perfect. He had brought it with him from Moscow. Just the right amount of lemon to make the flavor brisk but not sour.<br/>
<br/>
“I must admit,” Solo said, “I’m a little bored. For two weeks, I’ve been doing nothing except watching you. And not that you aren’t lovely to watch, Kuryakin, because you are. But I’m the CIA’s most effective agent. This isn’t challenging enough for me.”<br/>
<br/>
“Not challenging enough?” Illya said and sipped the tea.<br/>
<br/>
“Surely you’re bored too,” Solo said.<br/>
<br/>
“I am not bored. Being bored is so American.”<br/>
<br/>
“True,” Solo said. “So, what’re you doing since you aren’t bored?”<br/>
<br/>
“I play chess.”<br/>
<br/>
“By yourself.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes.”<br/>
<br/>
“And you read books.”<br/>
<br/>
“Russian literature, yes.”<br/>
<br/>
“And drink tea.”<br/>
<br/>
Illya stared at Solo.<br/>
<br/>
“Don’t you want someone to talk to? Besides your lady friend on the second floor, of course.”<br/>
<br/>
“I have excellent work ethic,” Illya said.<br/>
<br/>
“Doesn’t mean that we can’t have tea.”<br/>
<br/>
Even though Illya’s excellent work ethic kind of implied that he shouldn’t have tea with a badly underdressed foreign agent, he supposed there was nothing binding on his contract about that. Also, he could see Solo’s bare knees from where he was sitting. The situation wasn’t dangerous in any way.<br/>
<br/>
“I was thinking,” Solo said, suddenly looking more serious, “could you open something else for me as well?”<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
**<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<em>Napoleon Solo</em>, Illya thought pointedly, was a terrible flirter. Thoroughly incompetent. Solo was lacking all subtlety, and Illya would have been enormously surprised if Solo had ever managed to make an impression on <em>anyone</em> by flirting -<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Peril.</em>”<br/>
<br/>
Illya breathed in slowly. “I told you not to call me that.”<br/>
<br/>
“Fine,” Solo said, sounding impatient. Such an American. “Kuryakin?”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes?”<br/>
<br/>
“Aren’t you ready yet?”<br/>
<br/>
Illya bit his lip. “I would strongly advice you not to rush me.”<br/>
<br/>
“Peril –“ Solo paused, which was the wisest thing he had done so far. “<em>Kuryakin.</em> I apologize. But couldn’t you just –“<br/>
<br/>
“No.”<br/>
<br/>
Solo sighed unnecessarily loudly. His chest was rising and falling, there was sweat tingling on his forehead, and his wet hair was sticking to his face. No Russian man would have ever allowed anyone to see himself in such disheveled state. Which was kind of a shame, now that Illya was thinking about it.<br/>
<br/>
“Kuryakin?”<br/>
<br/>
“Quiet,” he said.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m getting hungry,” Solo said and then took a sharp breath when Illya crooked his fingers. “I’m… If this is going to take much longer, could you at least pass me a pickle?”<br/>
<br/>
“Absolutely not,” Illya said.<br/>
<br/>
“Come on,” Solo said, glancing at him. But Solo was lying on his back on the table, and the angle was bad, so it was wise of him to stop staring at Illya and fix his eyes on the ceiling instead. Illya pushed his fingers a little deeper. “Come <em>on</em>,” Solo said, probably thinking that he sounded convincing, the idiot. “I’m ready. I’m<em> beyond </em>ready. Just… <em>please…</em>”<br/>
<br/>
“I said,” Illya said, “do not make me rush this.”<br/>
<br/>
“Please, rush this,” Solo said, “or I promise you, you’re going to be sorry.”<br/>
<br/>
“You do not even have your gun with you.”<br/>
<br/>
“I can take you without my gun. I know a few moves.”<br/>
<br/>
“I know a few moves as well,” Illya said and crooked his fingers.<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Please</em>,” Solo said, panting. “I’ll do anything. Within reason. Which probably means that I’ll do barely nothing. But you can have the rest of the pickles. Just fuck me already.”<br/>
<br/>
“Can you stop looking like that?”<br/>
<br/>
“Like what? Like I’m going to die if you don’t get your cock into my ass right now?”<br/>
<br/>
<em>Pretty</em>, Illya thought, removed one of his hands from where it had been holding Solo down by the hips, reached forward and put his hand on Solo’s face. He couldn’t cover all of it, but it still helped. He shouldn’t have complied when Solo had suggested he could lie on his back on Illya’s kitchen table where it would be easy for Illya to first finger him open and then fuck him. It would be practical. But it was not practical, it was terribly distracting.<br/>
<br/>
Illya checked that Solo could still breathe. Then he pulled his fingers out of the man’s ass and replaced them with his cock.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
**<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
“Thank you,” Solo said, drinking his second cup of tea. “That was quite satisfying.”<br/>
<br/>
“Quite?” Illya asked, eating the cake. It was still perfect.<br/>
<br/>
“I didn’t like the hand on my face,” Solo said and then frowned. “Well, that was a lie. I liked it. I just don’t know why the hell.”<br/>
<br/>
“You obviously have trouble concentrating,” Illya said. Earlier, when he had been in the middle of fucking Solo, the man had started talking about the pickles. “Perhaps not being able to see helped you with that.”<br/>
<br/>
“I certainly didn’t have any trouble concentrating on your cock in my ass,” Solo said and took another slice of cake. “There’s just the right amount of lemon in this.”<br/>
<br/>
“I know.”<br/>
<br/>
“Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it, too.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m a KGB agent,” Illya said. But to be honest, he <em>had</em> enjoyed it. He had enjoyed it all the way from the beginning, when Solo had taken off his underpants and climbed onto the table. He had enjoyed pushing his fingers into Solo as slowly as he was able, and he had definitely enjoyed getting a good grip on Solo’s hips and fucking the CIA agent as thoroughly as he could, which admittedly had been a little difficult because of the relative sizes of his penis and Solo’s ass. But he liked to think that he had done a good job about it despite the challenges.<br/>
<br/>
“Right,” Solo said now, watching him and eating his cake. “You’re a KGB agent and I’m a CIA agent. A slightly unconventional love story.”<br/>
<br/>
Illya snorted. It was not a love story. He would never fall in love with someone who didn’t even know Russian literature.<br/>
<br/>
“About what we talked before,” Solo said, taking the jar of pickles and picking one.<br/>
<br/>
“Yes?” Illya asked, watching Solo eat the pickle.<br/>
<br/>
“About Tolstoy.” Solo ate another pickle. “You recommended that I read<em> Anna Karenina. </em>Do you have it? Or do I have to steal it?”<br/>
<br/>
“I have it. But I won’t lend it to you.”<br/>
<br/>
“Great,” Solo said. “You can have it back by the end of the week. Or next week, if it turns out to be dull. Or if my Russian turns out to be dusty.”<br/>
<br/>
Illya straightened his back. “What are you doing tomorrow?”<br/>
<br/>
“Watching you, I suppose,” Solo said. “Why?”<br/>
<br/>
“Come here. We can improve your Russian.”<br/>
<br/>
Solo smiled for no reason whatsoever. “Like, we can improve my Russian while I’m lying on the table?”<br/>
<br/>
“No,” Illya said. “We are going to do it in bed next time. I do not want to see your face when I’m fucking you. It is annoyingly good-looking.”<br/>
<br/>
“It’s not annoying for me,” Solo said, “but I agree, we should do it in bed. Do you want to have dinner, too?”<br/>
<br/>
“Where? We cannot go to a restaurant together. That would look weird.”<br/>
<br/>
“You can come to my place. As you know, I live right next door.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes,” Illya said, “but you cannot cook.”<br/>
<br/>
Solo frowned. “Of course I can cook.”<br/>
<br/>
“No, you can’t.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes, I can,” Solo said, sounding worried for the first time that evening. “Who let you think that I can’t cook? Was it my mother? Because I swear, I’m better than I used to be when I was eleven –“<br/>
<br/>
“It said on your file that you cannot cook.”<br/>
<br/>
Solo froze, squeezing the jar of pickles. “<em>What?</em>”</p>
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